Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) Read online

  “In the days of Majin, when magic was common and people prayed to the spirits of wood, and stone, and metal, there came a stranger out of a far land. His name was Cyrus. We don’t know much about how he looked, but he was supposed to have been quite tall, with deep black hair, and he was considered to be quite handsome. His skill with sword and shield was said to be unrivaled.

  “Lord Majin was the first Lord of Maj. He was a proud and arrogant man who did not seek advice often, and when he did, he usually asked only those he knew would agree with him. He had been granted the king’s favor and trust to hold this land against our enemies, and to be protector of Mirin Tor. For him, the stranger was not a blessing as some saw him, but a rival for his power. Cyrus desired nothing for himself but that he be granted a place among the people of Maj; a place to call home. He would never speak of where he came from, or any part of his past, but only shook his head sadly when someone asked, and walked away. After a time, he became one of the Maj. He fought bravely against the raiders that came from the south, and savagely battled the winter wolves that came frequently in those days to attack the people. Though each person did what they could, they had little skill, and they struggled to protect themselves. Cyrus urged the lord to better train his people, to make sure they were well armed, and ready for battle at all times.

  “In their old lives, most of these people had been farmers, or tenders of herds on the mainland. There were few threats on Mirin Tor, and most people did not train with weapons. When word spread that the island would be settled and set up as a kind of guard on the sea, a few brave souls and their families volunteered to join Majin. It was a little scary, but it was exciting, too. It was a chance to be a part of a new beginning.

  “Cyrus was relentless in his insistence that the people be trained. They were, after all, the protectors of Mirin Tor, and they should be ready to defend her. Even the women, he said, could be trained to wield a small sword or knife in defense of their home.

  “‘The women!’ Majin had scoffed. ‘Next you’ll be training the winter wolves to aid in our cause!’

  “Majin’s laughter echoed through to Cyrus’s heart, but he reined in his temper, and he tried to persuade Majin to listen to reason.

  “‘Lord,’ Cyrus said, ‘we would be stronger if we worked as one. A single twig may be broken easily, but hold many in your hands together, and they do not bend so readily.’

  “This time, there was no laughter in his voice as Majin said, ‘There is one Lord of Maj, Cyrus. You would be wise to remember who that is.’ Majin changed to a lighter tone when he spoke again. ‘Come now, Cyrus. My men are more than enough to protect us here, and your own good arm adds to our strength. Stop now with your worries, and let us go to dinner.’

  “Cyrus held silent, but in his heart he knew of a terror that was beyond the skill of the warriors of Maj, and it worried him, because he had come to love these people and this place.

  “The people of Maj had learned to trust Cyrus, and to see the stubbornness and pride of their lord. So, though he did not seek it, the people began to come to Cyrus to solve minor disputes or for advice, and after a time, to learn to fight. They knew they were vulnerable to attack when Majin’s forces were away, and they could see that even learning to swing a club was better than watching helplessly as another child was taken by wolves. Cyrus knew this was the people’s only hope for what was coming, and though it was against the wishes of his lord, he began to train them, men and women alike.

  “In late summer, when the leaves hung thick from the gnarn trees, a strange sight was seen. At first it went unnoticed. After all, ships were often seen upon the great sea, and this ship, though unusual, was not the design typically used by raiders. It was large, almost cumbersome, a great, broad, hulking beast that lumbered and swayed on the waves. The creaking and groaning it made as it approached Maj was eerie, and it sounded in the wind like the screams and moans of the dying. Surely it was too slow to be a war ship? Gradually it dawned on the people that this vessel had come from the east. Nothing came from the east. As far as anyone knew, there was nothing to the east, and no one had ever approached from that direction before. Perhaps it was a new people come to trade? But that ship that swayed and cried out on the sea and left one’s heart feeling cold…that couldn’t be right.

  “Quickly, a small group made their way to the Great Hall to see what Lord Majin knew of such things. As they burst through the entry way into the hall, Majin looked up in surprise. Even though the doors to the Great Hall were always open to the people of Maj, it was unusual, if not rude, to burst in unannounced. Around Majin stood ten of his warriors, Cyrus among them. Majin’s eyes took in the fear and confusion of the villager’s faces, and his back stiffened in anticipation.

  “‘Raiders?’ Majin asked in an almost bored tone, wanting to show that he was firmly in control.

  “Answers of ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘I don’t know, Lord.’ assaulted him, as five people began to speak at once.

  “‘Peace! Peace!’ Majin said sternly. ‘One at a time, or not at all!’

  “One voice spoke then, as the others stood with wide eyes in growing agitation. ‘Lord, there is a strange ship approaching. One like we have never seen before. All black, it is, and large, and slow. And Lord, it comes from the east!’

  “The villagers were upset and frightened, and they watched the face of Cyrus turn to a mask of twisted rage and hatred. His jaw clenched in fierce determination, and his eyes blazed like fire.

  “‘The east?’ Majin spoke quietly. The tension in the room was a living thing now, and Majin felt it pressing in on him from all sides. ‘Who could be coming from the east?’

  “Everyone turned to Cyrus as he growled a word that had never been heard before. ‘Breken!’

  “And with that word, Cyrus sprinted from the room, calling as he went, ‘Arm the men, Lord Majin!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘the women as well.’

  “The look on Cyrus’s face was enough to get the attention of even proud Majin, and he did not question the instruction, but quickly set to work organizing his people for battle.

  “Cyrus ran with heart pounding speed into the forest, sprinting deeper and deeper with each passing moment. The light faded to a dusky twilight. Small birds went silent on their branches. Cyrus noticed even the chattering of squirrels was missing as he flew through the wood. The branches of the gnarn trees were so thick and intertwined that they blocked much of the sun’s rays, looking every bit like ancient and gnarled fingers laced together in prayer. Cyrus’s pace slowed as he neared a tree that was different than the others. It was only a few years old, for Cyrus had planted the seed himself when he had first come to Maj to mark this very spot. In this place that was all golden gnarn trees, it stood out like a beacon, and the people who passed this way often commented on the pretty little tree that grew in the woods surrounded by its giant, golden cousins. Its needles were long and soft and held onto the color of springtime and life, even when the winter winds covered everything in a blanket of white.

  “The time had come to dig up what he had buried so many years ago. Quickly, though he worked without the aid of tools, Cyrus clawed and dug into the hard soil at the base of the tree. His fingers were torn and bloodied when he finally came to the object he sought, but his hands remained steady as he drew forth the treasure he had uncovered. The legends do not tell us from where it came or how it came into Cyrus’s possession, but when the people saw him emerge once more from the forest with the great sword in his hand, a ripple of excitement and tentative hope spread through them. Hope dimmed quickly, however, with the approach of the black ships.

  “Majin had gathered the people and opened the armory doors wide to get them equipped as quickly as possible, though to his surprise, many of them arrived already armed, holding their weapons of choice with familiarity. Grateful for anything that offered hope, it didn’t occur to him to be irritated or angry with them.

  “The closer the ship got to Maj, the grea
ter the horror seemed. The once distant moans and screams of the creaking timbers grew louder until they devoured all other sounds.

  “Cyrus stood on the beach a bit apart from the others speaking to himself from time to time. Such behavior was unusual, even for him, and caused some people to look upon their friend with expressions of worry. He seemed to be murmuring calming words to himself, and even once, an angry hiss, as if he had heard something that annoyed or displeased him.

  “The flat bottom of the Breken ship allowed them to anchor close to shore, closer than any deep drafted raiding vessel, which would have forced the invaders to come to shore in small boats. And when the lumbering, ship had come in as far as the low tide would allow, an opening appeared in the side, and a wooden ramp was lowered. Plunging from the belly of the beast came riders on horseback. They hit the great waves and surged ahead. The horses were as black as the ships they had come in, enormous and powerfully built, like the men who rode them. Their manes were braided with the teeth of defeated enemies wound within them like gruesome war jewels. Their eyes rolled white with panic as they splashed and lurched toward the shore, hooves striking blindly, trying to find solid footing where none existed. The riders clung to the necks of their mounts, screaming war cries in a foreign, guttural language as they rode, flinging their heads high to keep clear of the briny water as they worked their way steadily toward shore. Still more of the enemy swarmed over the sides of their ship and into the choppy waters. It took but a dozen or so strokes for them to be able to gain their footing, and when they did, they drew their swords free.

  “The Breken warriors rode and ran at the Maj like men possessed, beautiful and terrible to behold at once. Looking at the Breken, and looking at Cyrus, the people could not ignore the similarities. Both were tall and powerfully built. Their skin was varying shades of copper and bronze. Perhaps Cyrus had come from a similar land, or was a neighbor to these riders of death. Unlike Cyrus, the eyes of these warriors were not colorful and warm, but black as pitch, cold and cruel. They were eyes to make men shudder and children shrink into their mother’s skirts in fear. On the face of each Breken warrior there were designs, both stunning and strange. Some were ornate, covering almost the whole face, while others were simple and ran along a single cheek in a thin and delicate row.

  “The clash of steel on steel rang out as the brave people of Maj fought for their home, their honor and the lives of loved ones. Back to back, in some cases, they fought off their attackers. Though the people of Maj outnumbered the Breken, they feared they could not win this fight. Cyrus had trained them as best he could, but with too little time. Cudgels and clubs were no match for these brutal monsters who cut down one villager, and as they pulled the blade free from that victim, swung back on the next.

  “Majin fought tirelessly to protect his people. His heart filled with pride at the sight of the villagers as they battled beside him. Perhaps Cyrus’s way had merit after all, for the women fought as well as many of the men. Majin realized he had underestimated the protective nature of a mother’s love for her child, and how she might draw upon it to gain awesome power and strength in a fight. He had forgotten the she-wolf, or the mother bear in her den. It was a mistake he would not make again.

  Though they fought with courage, the people of Maj continued to fall about him until, at last, only half of them remained. Mothers and fathers called out words of love to their children who were hiding in the woods, when it seemed certain that all would be lost. “Cyrus knew that if he was going to act, it had to be now. To give up the love of his new home would be hard, harder than anything he had had to endure in all his years of exile, but to run now and have this place and these people cease to exist, was more than he could bear. He could have escaped. To slip away would have been so easy. He was more than a match for any Breken warrior, or even three, that he might come across in his flight, but his heart was here, and these were his people now.

  “He ran to the center of the fray and called out to the people of Maj. ‘Drop! Drop, now!’

  “Such was their faith in Cyrus that, as his sword arm thrust into the air, they all dropped like stones to the sand. A tremendous shout rent the air around them as Cyrus spoke a single, magical word of power, and a brilliant, golden light erupted from the blade.

  “Stunned and dazed, it took some time for the people of Maj to return to their senses. And when they did, they saw that around them lay the smoking bodies of the Breken.

  The few who remained staggered and stumbled back to their ships, and the Maj let them go, too full of grief and the pains of their own wounds to even think of doing otherwise.

  “Majin looked for days for any sign of Cyrus, for no body had been found. There was, in fact, no trace whatsoever of the friend who had saved them all. The sword of Cyrus had been found after the battle. It had remained perfect and untouched, with no mark upon the blade.

  “When Majin gently lifted the sword from the sand, it was hot to the touch, as if the power of the spell still burned inside of it.

  “A month later, he called the remaining people of Maj together and spoke to them in the once joyous Great Hall.

  “‘I have been a fool,’ Majin began. ‘I thought to rule Maj, and in my pride, forgot to look to my people for help and counsel. We have beaten back an enemy more terrible than any we have ever faced, but I will not say we have won. We have lost the best of us, though he was not born of Maj. Cyrus saved us all with his sacrifice.’

  “Even the hardest of Maj’s warriors wiped tears from their eyes. The pain of their loss so fresh, and so profound, that they could not hold in their grief.

  “‘Cyrus’s sword was all that was found, and we shall keep it in remembrance and honor of our friend. Should I ever again forget the value of my people, or to seek advice when it is needed, I pray this sword will remind me of my duty, and what it means to be a true protector of the people.’

  “Some people say that Cyrus gave his life for a Maj maiden who had stolen his heart, never knowing that she had died in battle only moments before him, but we will never know. All that can be said is that he gave his life for the people of Maj, and for that we honor his memory.”

  Chapter 4

  Daniel’s voice drifted into silence, and his spell was gradually broken. Wiping away the stray tear that trickled from her eye, Dearra stood gingerly. Pin pricks stabbed her heels. She had sat without moving as the story drew her in, and now she paid the price. Her toes tingled as she wiggled them in her boots in an effort to get the blood flowing again. She looked down upon the now sleeping form of her brother. His face rested on one outstretched arm, and his other hand still clung to the hilt of her sword. His hair obscured most of his face, but she could see the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward as he dreamt his little boy dreams.

  Dearra chuckled. “Well, that must be a comment on your story telling abilities, Daniel,” she teased.

  A scowl spread across Daniel’s face. He quipped in return, “Seemed you liked it well enough, or are your eyes leaking from some other malady?”

  Dearra’s laughter rang out causing Phillip to stir slightly in his sleep. Dearra spoke more softly so as to not wake her little brother. “Peace, peace, Daniel. It was a wonderful story. It always is, although the heroics of Cyrus seem to grow with each telling.”

  “Not true, and well you know it! That is one story that is retold faithfully, Dearra. Our history is not something I would make light of or twist to my own purpose for the sake of a better tale.”

  Dearra’s smile faded as she looked into the serious face of her friend. She honestly intended no disrespect, meaning only to tease the weapons master a bit.

  “You’re right, Daniel,” Dearra said sincerely. She dipped her head low in apology. “I’m sorry.”

  Daniel grumbled his acceptance of her act of contrition, and began to straighten the room for the night.

  “Daniel? Can I ask you something?”

  “It’s not likely to do me much good to say no,
so go ahead.”

  “What did you mean when you told Pip it was funny that he should ask to hear that story? That was a rather odd thing to say.”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It was just the ramblings of an old man, and not worth your notice.”

  Dearra responded to his constant complaints of old age as she always did, telling him that thirty-five was hardly old. He was a young man, really, with at least sixty years left to him as a warrior before he might want to settle down to something a bit more relaxing. One hundred was the age most men chose to retire from the military service of their lord and king, preferring, instead, the life of a farmer, ship builder, weaver, artist, or some other similar pursuit during the last forty or fifty years of life. Women retired from military service as it suited them. Some at one hundred, like the men, others when they had children. Still others served all their lives, children or no, just for the joy of the sword and shield, and the friendships that grew on the practice field. Then there were a few who served not at all, their hearts leaning to other callings, such as the study of medicine, as was the case with Dearra’s mother, or painting, or writing, or even the care of animals such as sheep and cattle. All contributions were recognized as of equal importance. Even so, most people felt the desire at some time to serve as protectors, to do their part to safeguard their homes and those of the ones they loved. Life was precious to the people of Mirin Tor, and it was a precarious world in which they lived, having to fight for everything they had, sometimes against enemies from other lands who held life in less regard. From time to time it was against the animals who, in their own struggle for life, threatened to push too far. There were also the natural disasters to deal with. At those times, every pair of hands was needed. Whether it was a brush fire, flood, or any of a hundred other emergencies that could occur in this perilous world, the cause was not important, only that they met it together.